Bouquets of fear in full bloom thorn tearing
Wrung hands raw, wounds upon wounds
Every day, over and over and over
One moment, one touch, one word, or look, or any other abuse
The wreaths hung choking in lungs buried beneath
Crushing weights, pinned butterfly beneath the thumb of oceans
Gasping in the dark alone and alone and alone…

…when of a sudden, a match is struck,
Timid flickering, more shadow than orange burning
But warmth where there was cold, a point
Fixed, a spar to cling, then another upon another
Till there is a torrent of pricks in the night
A blaze, one into one into many and there is a raging blossom
Strong and terrible and righteous.

The sunlight today is an act of violence,
Arrows slicing the clouds to ribbons
Such awesome and terrible storms of light,
Bright and ragged banners streaming
Battle cries thundering along the channels
Of the raging winds.

I once laid in a fever, between dream and vision
The roof above my head ripped away
The vaults of the night sky split
As overripe fruit, edges ragged as wounds
The pulp and pith of the heavens
A yawning, hungry, pure flame.

Angels peered over the edges,
Mouths bloody, teeth wicked and sharp
Wings of blackened, pitted iron spreading
A rustling of edges and rust
Hungry, feral, carrion birds eying their feast
Beautiful the way a naked blade is still lovely.

Frozen to the sweat soaked sheets
Bones the kindling for the fire set in my flesh
Unmoving, tears burning canyons into my cheeks
For the first time feeling the death in me,
Printed upon each cell as blackletter,
A whispering mirrored by the watchers’ lips,
As threads sewn beneath the skin,
Tied and knotted, a skein, a tapestry.

The fever broke, yet still I feel the tugging,
Still out of the corner of my eye
Wings beat at the shadows
Pinned beneath all my words,
All the brutal blood and sex and mortality
Tainting blue skies and sunlight
So that I will never not see the tooth marks left
By God’s terrible instruments.

The taste of your pulse beneath my tongue
Rising tempo, trembling, expectant
There is a gulf of hunger between the beats
A hopeless mingling desperation
Of devoured and devouring
A chaos of hands and mouths
Cream streaked with crimson
The tension of arches
Dreaming of endless, quivering, slavering ache
Clenching, reckless spasms
Symphonies played out upon raw sting nerves
Throats scraped and seared
Tumbling, tangled, over and under and over again
To lay in the end upon breasts oiled with sweat
Spent so utterly in the only fashion
Worth such precious coin.

I used to dream that I was alive
That there was steel in my hand
When blood would sing
The breath of my brothers a cloud above our heads
Life bright and hot amidst
Red, bright death
Singing hymns to harps and ringing blades
The taste of fear upon the lips
Pounding wings of crows
Beating in time with hearts and limbs
I used to dream I was a hero
Clad all in blood and gold
All my murders were justified.

Now that I have caught your eye with the provocative title, here are two more brand new pieces all fresh and dripping with afterbirth from the diseased womb of my mind. The first one is more of a fragment really, and is far more honest than people will be comfortable with, but hey, the title alone should frighten away the squeamish. I have often felt some need to censor myself to a certain degree in my work, leaving some of the pieces I wanted to be visceral far more sterile than I would have liked. I think in large part this is because while writing it down is one thing, speaking it is entirely another and in the back of my mind I am reading aloud to an audience somewhere and getting horribly embarrassed. These are a bit of an exercise in abandon, hopefully leading to shedding some of my own imposed prudishness. With the first poem, I am being perfectly honest in having entertained these thoughts, just the feeling of being moments away from perpetrating horrible acts of violence. I often feel this impotent rage that desires nothing more than the complete suffering at my hands of another. This may make me a rather disturbed individual, but by getting it out and onto paper, it may prevent several felonies, so that can’t be all bad.

Given half a chance, less than half, maybe just a heartbeat

I would kill and write songs about it,

Rend flesh to ribbons, blood under my nails

Grind bones to powder,

Make a perfect hymn of slaughter

Chorused by wails, whole harmonies of supllication

Exalted by the pleas for mercy

Sanctified in my pitilessness, cleansed of remorse, pure

Hip deep in gore and hard as hell

I would kill you all

Laughing and cursing you week, pathetic sheep under my blade

Glutting myself

If I were given a heartbeat

Even half a chance

Do not doubt it

Not for one fucking second

It might be your last.

This next poem I feel is more complete, yet rougher in some aspects than the first. It is yet another poem about sex, again, hopefully one that despite its many crudities will inspire something like arousal in the reader. I have one other note about it and that is that I am a heterosexual male and all of the images reflect that point of origin. I have tried in the past to write from a more universal standpoint, so that man or woman, straight or gay, whoever the reader is will be able to find identity within the work. This may in fact be possible, but not by me. I am writing from what turns me on, and that is me and a woman copulating. I don’t mean to imply that this is the only or correct way of doing things, just that when I think of sex these are the images that are most potent to me and what comes out onto the page. If your tastes run different, feel free to imagine the body of your choice and just gloss over the anatomical or mechanical bits with those appropriate to your own sense of the erotic. Here we go…

emisformake
The blog of my sissy-poo and the person responsible for me creating my own blog…so you can all blame her and while you’re at it check out her fantastically insane levels of creativity and talent